


My First and My Last (Lauren)

by Youholdmenow



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youholdmenow/pseuds/Youholdmenow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lauren depicts her firsts and her lasts in life. (Camren)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My First and My Last (Lauren)

My first memory as a child was of my father leaving. I did not understand it at the time, nor do I still to this day. I remember the screaming from downstairs, as my body shook with fear in the corner of my room. I did not know what was argued upon, but as a young child, I was sensitive to noise. I listened to my mother stomp her foot, angrily and loudly, against the wood tile of the hallway, adjacent to the living room, as a shatter rose from the same, small location. With that, the slam of the front door and screen came, and the rumbling of my father’s car sounded, as it hastily made its way down the concrete driveway, never reappearing again.

My mother cried that night, unable to control her bottled up emotions she had never been able to release from the endless fights, she had claimed, before my birth and after, but that was the first of what I remembered. My mother said I was still young, and I did not have to remember it all, but it played so lively in my mind, that I could not force it from my thoughts, even if I had tried. I remember the pads of my feets pattering down the stairs, and to where my mother had collapsed, unable to support her own body weight, from the weight of the situation itself. I wrapped my tiny arms around my mother, as much as possible, and her tears soaked into my onesie. We stayed in that position until dawn had arrived.

My first sibling was my brother. He was tiny, from my what my mother had recalled from his birth, as he born premature, coming the world early by 3 weeks. His lungs had still not properly developed, from what the doctor had told my mother, and would have the odds against him. My mother said my father was not there for his birth, because he was “caught up on work”, as he told her over the phone what night when in labor. He was not there for my birth either. My mother told me the nurses did not let him enter the corridor doors, into where all the laboring women were. He became my support, my rock, at the time when my mother could not. He understood my want of a better future, especially for our mother, even at such a young age. My mother was working, and we took care of each other. He would lay in bed with me, as we read aloud a children’s story, the only one in our shelf and the only one my mother had bought, because we could not afford such.

My first love was Tom. He was a child, of alike interests as mine, sharing the same homeroom as me in third grade. He was seated next to me, for the whole school year, and he seemed like a child of magic. He was the brightest of the class, though he always gave me that title, and was able to solve simple algebraic equations, which was impossible to our little minds at the time. Every teacher adored him, and saw great things in him.

We held hands from under our oversized desks, as our legs swung, in unison, back and forth, the class being oblivious to these daily doings. He talk to me, with such light from his eyes, about the nerdiest of topics, like math and reading. He was not like the other boys, who screamed cooties when a girl was near his “bubble”, or thought the coolest thing to talk about Max Rivera watching a rated R movie. He thought different from them, which was what intrigued my tiny mind, wanting the information he had possessed at such a young age. Sadly, he had transferred by the next year, one of the top gifted elementary schools accepting his enrollment.

My first kiss was when I was 13, it being with someone who I would later call “boyfriend”. We sat in outside of the school, on the playground, as his mother was late to pick us up. We were project partners, being assigned to each other, and my 13 year old self could not have been more happier. He was considered cutest boy of grade, and every girl would have done anything to have been in my position. He asked me if he could, and squeaked a yes, having nod my head rapidly. He leaned in a kissed me.

There was not a spark like the books we read screamed. But there was a slight tingle, a twitch in my lips, as his firmly pressed against mine. I had nothing to compare it to, so I could not complain. My eyes were open at first, from the sudden contact of his lips against mine, but they slowly fluttered closed, enjoying the moment. He detached his lips from mine, as a grin formed on his face, a similar one on mine, matching his. And at the moment, his mother arrived with her car, ready to pick us up, oblivious to the connection we had just shared.

My first diagnosis was of the disease Hyperacusis. My mother brought me to the family doctor’s clinic, frantic upon the event that had happened only mere minutes ago. We were in the living room, my mother, stepfather, brother, and sister, talking amongst themselves, as I read a book. A firetruck passed by, its siren blaring, causing panic to rush in me, hyperventilating occurring without a thought, as a panic attack hit me. My mother saw, my stepfather saw, my brother and sister saw, as I was in a fetal position on the ground, unable to hear their cries of distress.

The family doctor explained the diagnosis, claiming that it was how my body reacts to noises like the sirens. What may have been normal to normal people, was deafening, and painful to hear, cause panic, like the panic attack to occur. He asked if any injuries had happened as a child. My mother told him my father once dropped me down the stairs because he was drunk, and decided he wanted to bringing his daughter with him to lay on the couch. My doctor understood.

My first relationship was with him. He would hold my hand, and take me to the park, where it all began for us, the first kiss that started it all. He would have me sit on his lap as he kissed me, quite firmly, the intensity of his kisses becoming of more each time. I did not understand it at the time, but I played along with it. He became more observant of my schedule, and made sure I was to spend at least an hour with him and only him each day.

I did not feel a spark. Our relationship became like the same feeling as our first kiss, something I enjoyed, but did not desire, crave for something from him. But I did enjoy that way the girls looked at us, with jealousy in their eyes and glares, wishing they were in my position, as he and I strolled down the hallway, hand in hand. I loved having something they did not, after years of always not having what they had.

My first time was with him. We had snuck out, to the park, and where our parents could not find us. It gave me a rushing sense of rebellion in me, as we ran to the bench, hand in hand, with smiles plastered on our face. As we were laying there, he told me he wanted to try something new, which left me confused, at what he was implying to. He said he wanted to take the next step in our relationship.

I never told him yes, because as I could recall, I kept whispering no to him, until they just became gradually louder, until he clamped his hand over my mouth, to muffle the cries for help that would escape my lips. I remember feeling his lips pressing so roughly against my skin, that it started bruising. I could remember his fingers and hands trailing down each inch of my body, tainting it all with his impure thoughts. I definitely remembered him telling me it was not going to hurt. It did hurt.

* * *

 

My last time was with her. She came into my room one night, with a pale look on her face. I invited her in, concerned at her condition at the moment. She cried on my shoulder, questioning the world, and why “no one would love her”. I was beyond confused, at where to assumption of such had surfaced in her mind, to be able to escape her lips. Her recent breakup must have taken a toll on her, refusing to speak to the girls and I about anything, speak to us in general. She suddenly straightened up from her position, and turned her head, and told her to love her.

I remember a feeling in the pit of my stomach, as I kissed her, with such passion, it made my head spin with never ending thoughts. My skin burned when it came in contact with hers, the way she kissed me began to leave my heart in irregular heart palpitations. She began to run her fingers down my chest, and to my abdomen area, as my lips latched onto the sensitive skin, located in the crook of her neck. Euphoria was all I felt that night.

My last relationship was with her. We would impulsively travel to the oddest of places, from tap dancing classes, to the streets, where, with her guitar, we would sing for the public, expecting nothing in return, because my heart would be warm, with my face sore from the laughs and smiles. Hand in hand, we would walk through parks in the late outs of the night, conversing over the most random of topics, and discuss future plans we had for ourselves.

It was a pure joy. I had always felt this certain way, in her presence, it felt as if I was reunited with the other half of me that had been missing. Happiness came much more easily with her, and sadness was unlikely. It was a pure love, a slow burn of the chest and the heavy flutter of butterflies that I thrived on. Being with her was intoxicating, addicting, and I could not get enough of it, of her. It was all too special to let go.

My last diagnosis changed much in my life. It began before I could quite process sadness. The feelings never went away, always finding life was short in happiness, and a void in my heart that was never filled. They said it could have been because of my father’s sudden disappear in my life, feeling guilty to causing his leave, or the shame from being a victim of the certain kind of trauma someone I once called my “boyfriend” caused me, but it all did not matter to me, that of the cause. None the less, I was still considered not worthy of such happiness and finding a peace state of mind.

I began to lose interest in the things that made me the most happiest, then just in life generally. It became difficult to automatically breath, each being a stagger and frantic intake of breath in order to keep myself alive, to keep my body functioning just a little longer. Everything began to hurt, with a certain slow, dull pain, that I had not noticed until this moment like something that’s been hurting since day one, that just became familiar to my tired body. It was all for her, all I did to survive after this hell was for her.

My last kiss was with her. I told her she was not good for me, the way she made me feel. She tried so hard, to replace my morbid thoughts with happiness and love, always convincing me of a future for the both of us. But, nothing could convince myself of salvaging what was left of myself, for it has been decaying since the day I was born. She told me to stop thinking like that, she told me I was worth all the pain she’s felt and she could not let me throw it away.

I pressed my lips against hers, tears seeping from my eyes. She pulled me in closer, closing the gap between us.There was this pain in my chest, I had not experienced before. It felt as my heart was aching, a pain more excruciating compared to all I had ever experienced. The way her fingers kept running through my hair and holding my head closer to her. How she pressed her chest against mine. The way our tears mixed from the close contact of cheeks. We broke apart, from the lack of oxygen entering our lungs, as we parted our ways, and said goodbye for the last time.

My last love should have been just considered my first. We were kept a secret, from our parents, closest friends and especially the public. Kisses were shared in the dark, hands were held under counters, tables, and in the sheets of the hotel beds we had shared with each other. It was all so magical and like a fairytale to have obtained such love and endearment from one single person. She made me forget sometimes, that I was slowing dying, or the fact how my mind was spinning to no bounds, with the thought of death engraved in my mind. She made me forget I did not like life itself.

The way she made be feel was beyond comparable to a boy from third grade. The palpitations of my heart that would be caused by her touch, or the when butterflies would upset my stomach when I saw her, or peered into her chocolate orbs. The burn of my skin that indicated the trail her lips had once touched, had once kissed. The undeniable joy that filled my heart when she would hold my hand. It was all so much, and probably too much for someone who wished for nothing more than death of herself.

My last sibling was my little sister. She was conceived by my mother and my now step father. She was born with no health defects and no death risks, which was all my mother and our whole family could ask for when we found out of her third pregnancy. I remember hearing her cry, coming into the world, as my mother cried in joy, and my father sighed in relief. My brother was excitedly bouncing up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of his new younger sibling, excited to the fact he was no longer the youngest child of the family. She gave a joy, when I needed it the most. Having supported me from the start, like my brother, but understanding certain pressures of being female, my brother could not quite understand or fathom in his mind.She would take me to the mall, using much of her free time to partake in bringing joy and happiness from within me, leaving her friends, rather talking about her girl problems with me. She liked sleeping in the same bed as me, not quite secure with the thought of having me in my own, after my first attempt.

My last memory was the orange capsule, clutched tightly in my hand. There was this numbing pain that took effect, slowing the circulation in my body, or what I thought as that from the ultimate feeling of drowsiness. I blinked slowly, trying to recollect the events that just took place, not fully understanding the circumstances I had put myself in, my consciousness starting to fade slowly. I move my hand to the porcelain sink, only to feel it fall limp, the energy disappearing in my system, as I laid on the marble floor.

I remember my last painful minutes of consciousness, with her hands cradling my limp body in her lap, as her warm tears dripped from her rosy cheeks, to my forehead. I remembered how she had buried her face into my hair, begging me to stay with her, which I did not understand. She muttered things under her breath, of all that seemed to be the silent movements of her lips and incoherent sounds, from the inaudible tone in her shaky voice. I remember hearing echoing footsteps from where we laid, only to have my body lifted from her warmth. My vision started to blur, and darkness began to spot my eyesight.

“I love you Laur-,” And with that, I felt my world darken to black and my body fall still.


End file.
